Section 7
by Sithari
Summary: The Story of Deus Ex, starting at Hell's Kitchen. It starts with minor changes to the story that take more and more story threads in different directions until (Hopefully) we end up with a story that is greatly changed from the original.
1. Opening

**Section 7**

"God damn, but I'm tired of living like this."

The walls of the Free Clinic shook as another rocket landed somewhere on the streets outside, momentarily drowning out the already muffled gunfire. The two refugees sat in the clinic's imitation plastic chairs, unflinching. They'd been desensitized to the explosions long ago, and the Free Clinic was built like a fortress. They were probably safer here than any other part of the city.

"It'll be over soon. The NSF can't hold out much longer, now. Stupid thing for them to do, if you ask me. Trying to fight UNATCO out in the open…"

"They must be getting desperate."

"Everybody's getting desperate."

Outside the clinic a UNATCO agent in a dark blue trench coat leaned around the clinics stairwell, peppering the street and the barricaded NSF soldiers with automatic weapons fire. Behind him, two troopers crouched behind a large dumpster that had been pulled out from the wall to serve as temporary cover.

"Christ. Never thought I'd see a Denton shoot like that."

The other soldier leaned around the dumpster in time to see a group of panicked NSF troopers pour out of the Osgood & Sons warehouse door as a guided missile from one of the overhead choppers shot through one of the windows, creating an explosion that tore most of the building apart. Shell-shocked from the blast, the fleeing group stumbled into the street, where they were cut down by Denton's barrage of 6.62mm rounds. The soldier pulled his head back behind the dumpster.

"Never thought I'd see anybody shoot like that."

The immediate crescendo of the agent's weapon subsided, replaced by the more distant, sporadic gunfire echoing in from all over the city. Denton crouched beside their dumpster, rifle in one hand, the lip of the dumpster in the other.

"I need to get into Osgood & Sons, but there's still at least two snipers covering the street and the choppers are being called off to help Paul. If I keep the marksmen distracted, can you get to the park and hold it until Agent Hermann arrives with reinforcements?"

The troopers looked up in surprise. _They_ were usually the distraction.

"Yeah, sure thing, JC. No problem."

The agent nodded.

"Alright. Get ready to run for it."

Denton pulled himself up, pulling the near empty clip from his rifle and letting it drop to the ground. A sprint down a sniper-infested side-street into a burning building that would hopefully lead into a mined and hastily booby-trapped alley that was supposed to run alongside a warehouse swarming the NSF soldiers protecting a generator that Paul said needed to go down. Denton sighed as he un-slung the bolt action 30.06 from his back and strapped the bull-pup assault rifle back onto his thigh, a new magazine freshly inserted.

At least he was a pretty decent runner.

Above them, invisible against the night sky, a black silhouette sliced through the air, its already quiet rotor whirr was drowned out by the war that raged below. In the cockpit, the pilot switched on the communications transmitter and glanced down at the scene beneath his silent bird of prey.

"Manderley, have you seen this? The entire city's lit up."

The response from the radio was crisp and clear, with only a few miles of air to distort it.

"I'm getting the reports, but with everything that's happened, security isn't letting me outside to see it for myself. How bad are we looking at?"

"They're setting fires on Wall Street."

There was silence from the other side of the line. The pilot spoke again.

"You still want me over at Sector 12?"

"Yes." Manderley said after a brief pause. "I'm worried about Paul. He shouldn't need this kind of backup."

"Everybody has their bad days. I'll be on site in… Four minutes."

"Good luck, Jock."

The radio transmission went dead. Manderley turned to his computer as reconnaissance photos and action reports continued to flood the screen. JC could handle himself in a firefight and wasn't scared of achieving a combat resolution. Battery Park had proven that much, at least. He could manage for a while longer. Manderley glanced at one of the electronic reports floating in space on his monitor. Denton had even managed to garner a full recommendation from Anna Navarre for his actions at Castle Clinton, though Manderley was unsure exactly how to assess praise coming from someone like Agent Navarre.

The door to Manderley's office creaked open, and Agent Gunther Hermann, a hulking, mechanized mass of nerve and steel, sat down in the chair opposite Manderley's desk, his thick German accent garbling some of his words.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Manderley."

Manderley slid a light folder across the desk towards the agent.

"I'm changing your standing orders. I think Paul's going to need some help taking down the warehouse. He hasn't been proceeding with his usual level of skill."

"You mean he is getting better? I find it hard to believe he could get any worse."

"That's enough, Hermann. Just because Paul carries a different philosophy than-"

"He is timid, like a child. For weeks we read the briefings on the new super agent, and the wonderful machines that power him, and that he is to become the new standard for UNATCO agents. We are shown his specifications. We cannot believe such an efficient killing machine is possible. Finally, the man of the hour arrives, and he cannot even fight!"

"I said that's enough, Hermann. I want you on the next to chopper to Sector 12. Help Paul if he needs it, but don't be difficult."

"I am to be his side-kick, now?"

Manderley started to make an objection, but Gunther interrupted.

"It does not matter. A side-kick is better than an old, grey golem waiting to rust."

Gunther stood up and left Manderley's office with a grim, determined gait.

Manderley let out frustrated sigh before returning to the flickering monitor screen.


	2. Know Your Enemy

_**Know Your Enemy - NSF**_

_The National Secessionist Forces (NSF) remain a very real and increasingly widespread terrorist threat. Ten years ago, in response to the Sporting Weapons Act of 2042, splinter groups from nearly every state militia refused to surrender their rifles, grenades, land mines, and other "collectibles" prohibited by the Act. Unified under the charismatic leadership of Leon Woods, these isolated fanatics eventually formed the NSF with Woods assuming the rank of General. Their intended goal: the "liberation" of Washington, Montana, Oregon, and Northern California. While Woods died during his infamous "last stand" in 2045, his war machine continues what can only be termed an occupation of the United States, aided by an encrypted network designed by dissident computer scientists from San Francisco and Seattle._

_The U.N. has declared war on the NSF._

UNATCO Handbook

Sam stole a quick glance out the second story window of the 'Ton Hotel and was greeted by a war zone. Bodies littered the street as the ambient echo of gunfire carried through the brisk night air. In the distance, tracer rounds cut upwards through the sky, gunners firing blindly at UNATCO's shadow-like helicopters. Most of the fighting was concentrated south of Central Park, and the NSF resistance was starting to break into pockets. Sam pulled back from the window and sat slouched against the wall, rifle in her lap. It was the Alamo all over again.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

"You okay?"

Sam shook her head.

"We can't do this, Damian. Our regiment's already down to a quarter strength. Half our people were in Battery Park and LaGuardia says UNATCO took that half an hour ago. Foxtrot and Victor lost Rockefeller Plaza. Carnegie was supposed to be held by Romeo and nobody's heard from them for hours. We can't retreat, either, even if we wanted too, because we all know what's at stake."

There was a roar from the streets outside as gunfire from both sides renewed. Sam looked up, a quiet sadness in her eyes.

"This is it, isn't it?"

Damian gave her one of his shy, half smiles.

"I think so."

Sam lowered her head towards the rifle, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Don't be scared, Sam… okay? It'll be okay."

"I don't want to be a martyr."

Damian was hugging her now, his weapon forgotten on the carpeted floor. His voice still carrying the shy, half smile.

"There are worse things to be."

In the hotel lobby below, Nicholas had herded the hostages into the reception office. There was less of a chance of them catching any stray shots from the firefight that would ensue when the UNATCO strike teams inevitably hit their building. The reports from the outside were getting pretty grim. UNATCO was closing in on the generator and had already surrounded the warehouse. He leaned against the opposite wall, watching the hostages. There were three of them, all civilian. The old one had complained, but otherwise hadn't been too much trouble. The NSF took hostages only in cases where it was absolutely necessary that UNATCO be delayed as long as possible.

They'd been taking a lot of hostages lately.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw a uniform blur past the window towards the door. He pulled his pistol from its holster and shouted up towards the others.

"UNATCO TEAM! JUS-"

That was as far as he got before a rifle round tore through the window glass and caught him just above the left temple.

The fire team swarmed into the lobby, eyes and rifles pointed up and down, left and right, eyes scanning for anyone hiding behind a door, or a railing, or a potted plant. One of the terrorists from the upper stories started to come down the staircase into the lobby, rifle raised. Collins squeezed off a three round burst, sending the man tumbling forward down the stairs like a rag doll, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Sam was kneeling in the second story hall, her back to the window. The rifle shook in her hands, threatening to slip through her clammy grip and onto the floor. Her lungs shuddered short, ragged breaths. Nicholas was dead. Sweat drenched her. Damian was dead. Her vision was blurring. Damian was dead. There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Damian. A troopers shadow on the hallway wall. Sweet little Damian…

Sam's shot went wild, blowing a hole in a florescent ceiling light above the stairs. Lead exploded from the trooper's submachine gun.

Below them, the owner of the 'Ton was being led out of the reception office.

"Are you alright, Mr. Renton?"

"Fine. I think that's all of them. You got they guys upstairs?"

There was a second burst of gunfire and the crash of shattered glass, followed by a distant thud.

Zavala emerged from the corner of the landing above and gave Collins a thumbs-up. The other members of the squad were moving through individual rooms, searching for any NSF stragglers.

"Yes Sir, just securing the area, now."

Renton stopped, grabbing the trooper by the arm.

"Hey… My daughter… Sandra… You haven't seen her, have you? She's been gone all week. I've been trying not to think about it, but…"

Collins looked out the hotel's open lobby doors and frowned.

"Tonight's a bad night to be on the streets."

"If you see her, tell her, tell her I don't care. I don't care where she's been or what she's been doing. She can come home. No questions, no speeches."

"Don't worry, sir. As long as she stays clear of the NSF she should be okay."

Gilbert Renton looked down at the bodies scattered over the lobby floor.

"Now we just need to run these sons-of-bitches out of Manhattan."

* * *

The helicopter touched down in the middle of the parking lot, its blades beating almost silently through the cool night air. Uniformed men were hurrying past towards a large warehouse in the middle of the lot, each one armed and looking very determined. A Military bot sat motionless near the lots gated entrance, the only hint of life coming from its single, glowing eye. There was gunfire in the distance, and occasional rocket blasts, but it paled in comparison to what was going to happen here.

The Gunther stepped off the ebony craft as a squad of soldiers, the helicopters other passengers, rushed passed him. They parted as they ran past a middle-aged man in a cobalt trench coat coming towards Gunther. They stopped a few feet apart.

"The spitting image of your brother."

The man in the trench coat smiled.

"You've met JC then? How's he fitting in?"

"Better than you ever could. It is hard to believe he is your brother."

Paul looked away at the support helicopters coming in just above the skyline.

"Yeah… I know what you mean."

There was a silence between the two men as the helicopters landed and the second wave of reinforcements began to disembark, hauling weapons and equipment out of the choppers. Paul turned back to Gunther.

"So, are you here for moral encouragement, or are you taking command?"

"Manderley is not pleased with your handling of the assignment thus far. I am here only to ensure that the mission is carried out correctly."

"Good to see Manderley hasn't lost faith in me. How's the generator?"

"Your brother will be more than adequate. The EMP field will go down on schedule."

Paul glanced back at the shielded warehouse and the machines of war building up around it.

"Here's hoping."


End file.
